


Pain

by Counting_the_stars



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (2008), Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood, Capture, F/M, Pain, Police, Rescue, Saviour, Set Up, Sexual Abuse, Starvation, Torture, Violence, Vomit, Wounds, hostage, trap, whip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Counting_the_stars/pseuds/Counting_the_stars
Summary: One Shot.James Fraser is a detective/ police officer, following the case of Jack Randall, when he is captured by the man himself.This is a one shot of Jamie being held hostage by Jack Randall.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Jamie Fraser/Jonathan "Black Jack" Randall
Comments: 15
Kudos: 84





	Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Something wildly different from what I usually write.
> 
> I won't be writing a full fic on it, because I don't think that I have the energy to do it. 
> 
> It was hard to write, but also stretched me to touch on things I'd really rather not. Which that being said, there are some things that I simply will not write and rape is one of them. This touches briefly on it, but doesn't go further.
> 
> We all know how sadistic Jack Randall is, and this is just a scene from that.

Light.

Eyes coming back into focus to a light that was too bright causing his pupils to shrink against the assault. Blinking away the tears that coated his eyelashes, anything to stop the burning. Gritty. Like a grain of sand, or an eyelash out of place, he blinked again trying to clear it.

Pain.

A laboured breath as the pressure on his ribcage bruised and battered with each inhale. Stretching the muscles in his chest beyond what he thought he could bear, as each breath came in a choking gasp. A whip striking the broad plane of his back, tearing the flesh from muscle and bone.

Memory.

Blank. No idea where he was or why he was hurt.

Smell.

The stale smell of cigarettes long since turned ash and the sweat that coated his body.

Sound.

Water was dripping somewhere nearby. A steady tap-tap-tap as each drop fell to the ground. Footsteps shuffling, scuffing along the floor.

Taste.

Blood. He could taste his own blood as his tongue frantically moved it’s way around his mouth, searching for broken or missing teeth. None.

Light.

Eyes adjusting to the world around him. Grey walls. Dirty, cement, warehouse. He couldn’t focus, the splitting pain in his head with the bright white burning his eyes as he blinked hard.

Pain.

A kick to his gut came hard and sharp, the toe of a boot brought quickly to his abdomen and stealing his breath. Where was he? Why did he hurt? 

Memory.

A laugh. Cold and cruel, words he didn’t completely understand, he couldn’t comprehend- too busy trying to place where he was and why he was there.

Smell.

A deep breath through his nostrils, trying to force air into his aching chest, to undo the knot of pain that was twisting in his belly. Musky, dirt, foul stench rocketed through his head and he tried to take another breath, this time through his mouth.

Sound.

A chair scraping against the cold cement floor. The metal creaking under the weight of a body as it sat. A direction, barked at someone and retreating footsteps as they hurried to carry out the order.

Taste.

Metal. A thick drool coating the side of his mouth, before he spat a heavy coagulation of blood and saliva to the side, trying to clear the metallic taste.

Light-Pain-Memory-Pain-Smell-Pain-Sound-Pain-Taste-Pain.

He was hit again and again and again. Working to try and catch his breath. Struggling to see as a cut formed over his eye and blood temporarily clouded his vision. The smell of sweat and the taste of copper, he raised his hands to protect his head but they were tied behind his back. The memory of her laugh that morning as he put a smiley-face on her pancakes with syrup and cream. It had melted immediately and looked, quite frankly, terrifying, but she had kissed him soundly as a thank you regardless. Pain as he felt a rib crack under the strain of another kick to his torso, an involuntary groan passing his lips. The memory of a thinly veiled threat if he didn’t step back in line from the man in the sunglasses and the tipped hat, there would be consequences. He should stop looking, stop sticking his nose where it wasn’t welcome.

Saviour. He would do anything to save her, to keep her from harm. To keep her safe, he would take a hundred blows or more, if it meant that she was ok.

A cruel laugh, strangled in sound, sending chills down his spine. He knew this man. He wanted to bring this man to his knees. Dirty. Needless blood had been shed by this man. No remorse. How can you have remorse when you don’t believe that you are wrong?

Memories from before he had blacked out. The set up, the capture, the not so thinly-veiled threat that this was his comeuppance. That if he had just turned the other way, he wouldn’t be in so much pain now. If he had just learned to look the other way, he wouldn’t have put her in danger. And now she was.

There was no second warning, no three strikes- you’re out. A singular threat for him to move on, focus on another case, let sleeping dogs lie. But he hadn’t. How could he? There was bad blood. A recurring nightmare in the Force that nobody could pinpoint- that no one could bring down. Until Jamie. 

Justice. That was his job. Serve and protect. How could you serve and protect with one eye closed? What else would he miss while he looked away?

Not on his watch. He couldn’t. Ever vigilant. He’d made an oath and he didn’t take oaths lightly. 

Pain. 

His head wrenched upwards, his hair pulled by the roots. Light, burning his eyes before the face came into focus. 

“I told you, did I not, that you should not look into things that we’re not yours. I warned you. I gave you fair warning, so really, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Jamie’s left eye was swollen shut. The face was blurred but he knew the voice. That bone chilling voice. Others were charmed, Jamie had never liked it. It brought his hair on end and sent shivers down his spine. You couldn’t disguise cruelty when you wore it like a second skin. 

“Do you blame yourself, Jamie?”

Jamie hissed as his head was jerked further and he felt his torso lift from the cold concrete floor. 

He leaned closer. 

Smell. 

Stale cigarettes and coffee washed over his face. 

“Because,” he was whispering, his face so close to Jamie’s they were jaw to jaw, “there really is no one else to blame. Innocent lives, on your hands. Her innocent life, on your hands. She’ll know who to blame before she breathes her last. Don’t worry. I will be sure to let her know who is responsible for all of this. I’ll be sure to let her know that the man who was meant to love her, fed her to the dogs.”

Jamie was thrown to the floor. 

“I won’t let you,” Jamie’s voice was hoarse and weak. 

The responding laugh shattered through Jamie’s mind and he thought he would split in half at the sound. It was the tone of pure hatred and cruelty. Jamie had nightmares that were less frightening. 

“I hardly think you are in a position to stop me from doing anything. Though I can’t say that I wouldn’t mind seeing you try. Untie him.” An order given to someone unseen and Jamie’s hands were released from behind his back. 

Jamie sat up slowly, deliberately. Trying to get his bearings while his head swam. Eyes closed he braced himself, palms down, head hanging he tried to breathe and reorient himself. 

“We have her.” A voice from behind him causing his eyes to snap open and look wildly around.

Her. It could only be her. Claire. 

“Any troubles?”

“None, she came very willingly.”

“Leave her alone.” It was a snarl from Jamie’s lips, a sound he was sure he had never made before. 

“She came willingly,” he explained patronisingly. “What kind of host would I be, if I didn’t welcome a guest?”

“Leave her alone, Jack.”

“I should see to her, should I not? Keep an eye on him.”

“Jack, please.”

Another cold laugh and Jamie was alone. 

—

Light. 

None. Jamie sat helplessly in the dark.

Pain. 

Jamie took stock of his body. Definitely a broken rib. Perhaps two. Countless bruises. His eye was no longer bleeding, but he could feel the dry caked bloody mess that was his hair. 

Memory. 

Where was he? He was sure that he knew this place. The sounds. The smells.

Jamie had come to him, followed the lead that everyone else had ignored. Fallen right into the trap that had been laid out. It was his fault. It was all his fault. 

—

Jamie didn’t know how long he sat in the dark. The light did not change. There was no sound. The previous drip he thought was a tap was more than likely his own blood. No sound. No light. Nothing. 

—

It could have been minutes, hours, days. Hunger came and went. The throbbing pain continued. 

No change in light. No sound. Only pain. 

Jamie ran everything in his mind over and over again. Where had he gone wrong? Had Jack been on him from the start? Was every break in the case he made just another elaborate step in Jack’s carefully laid plan?

It seemed personal. This wasn’t just business. Going after Claire. That was personal. That was deeper. This couldn’t be just to protect his carefully constructed crime syndicate. 

—

Hours? Days? Jamie lost count. A stale bread roll thrown to him and the blinding light from the door opening startled him into wakefulness. 

Alone. He was alone. 

No word from Claire. No word from Jack. 

A water bottle rolled blindly in the dark. He was weak. Hurt. 

He was alone. 

—

Three days. He was sure of it. Three days since he had arrived, only to be lured into a trap that left him half alive. Starved. Dehydrated. Alone. 

Where was Claire? What had Jack done with her? Was she alive? Was she worried about Jamie?

Three days of solitude. It could have been longer. The stubble on his bruised and battered face was the only indication that time was passing. The room smelt of his own piss and shit. He had no choice. He was suffocating in his loneliness and his anxiety over what was happening with Claire. 

Jamie had torn his shirt, strips that he blindly used to brace his torso and broken ribs. Another strip to stabilise the fingers on his left hand which he was sure had been broken at some point in the struggle. 

Bruises and broken bones he could handle. They would heal. But the fear over what was happening with Claire, was killing him. 

He tried to sleep. He tried to think of anything else. He went over every detail that had led him to Jack, trying to find where he had gone wrong. Had he tipped off the wrong person? Had he spoken to the wrong mole? At what point did Jack know that Jamie was onto him and at what point did Jamie drop his guard enough to slip up? 

His mind reach for Claire. For her comfort. But those thoughts caused him far more pain than the broken ribs or the bruises that littered his body. 

Where was Claire? Was she ok? Was she worried about him?

The door swung up and Jamie blinked against the blinding white light, trying to see anything but the black dots that were blurring his vision. 

“Time to go.”

A voice he didn’t recognise. 

He was pulled to his feet and marched out of the room. Everything was too bright and Jamie was too weak. 

He was thrown into another room, the door swiftly closed behind him. It was still shockingly bright and Jamie’s head pounded at the intrusion. 

A table and two chairs sat in the middle of the room. A basin filled with water at the centre of the table, a cloth and a towel draped carefully over the back of one of the chairs. 

Jamie tried to stand, his right ankle couldn’t support his weight properly and he limped toward the table. A bar of soap sat next to the water. He was able to clean his wounds. There was hardly any point if Jack was just going to kill him anyway but he could almost hear Claire’s voice in his head. 

“Disinfect that finger Jamie or I'll cut it off. I don’t care if it’s just a scratch. Clean it out.”

Jamie nodded to Claire obediently as he began to wash. The water was warm, Jamie’s fingers were stiff and he groaned in appreciation at the calming sensation on his bruised and battered skin. 

The clear water was soon discoloured a murky brown and red with his blood. The white cloth now stained as he washed his face. A bar of soap that he didn’t see before. Lavender scented as he slowly broke down the caked and dried blood from his hair.

The door opened behind him and Jamie froze, unsure of what he was meant to do. 

A middle aged man that Jamie didn’t recognise, dressed all in black carefully replaced the bowl of water with a clean one and removed the other. 

“Wait, what’s happening?” Jamie’s voice rasped. 

The man did not respond but simply left the room carrying the filthy water. 

Three more times he came and replaced the water as Jamie washed. 

Each time Jamie asked what was going on. Each time there was no response. 

The light in the room was still far too bright for Jamie’s sensitive eyes and only when Jamie washed his face again and the water remained relatively clear did the man not return to replace the water. 

Jamie sat with his head in his hands, blocking out the light- trying to block out this nightmare. He smelled of lavender. It was sickly sweet and made his head swim. 

Where was Claire? Was she ok? Did she know what had happened to him?

Jamie heard the door open once more but he didn’t look up. Expecting the man to be back with another bowl of water. 

“Feeling better?” The cold and chilling voice of Jack Randall startled Jamie. 

“I’m cleaner, if that’s what yer askin’.” Jamie didn’t lift his head from his hands. Despite the last three days, despite being beaten within an inch of his life, right then, after washing his wounds, he felt more exhausted than all of the days combined. 

The sound of a chair being pulled back from the table as Randall sat. The door opening, the water taken away, the door closing. Jamie heard, rather than saw, as he kept his head in his hands. He was breaking. He could feel it. 

“It took me a while to figure out your weaknesses, you know,” Jack said conversationally. When Jamie didn’t respond, he continued, “The great James Fraser. Not scared of anything. Would run into a burning building for a kitten if asked. So what was your weakness? Everyone has one.”

“Even you?” Jamie’s voice was muffled but he knew that Jack had heard him as he laughed humourlessly. 

“Everyone has a weakness, Jamie.”

“Canna wait to hear about it.”

“But yours. It was so obvious. Too obvious really, I overlooked it for so long. The great and gallant James Fraser, brought to his knees over a woman.” Jack scoffed and Jamie felt his shoulders twitch in anger. He needed to take better control of his emotions. Everybody had a weakness- Jamie needed to find Jacks’. 

“I thought that your ego was too large to love anyone other than yourself, and then you go and bring her to a cocktail party. Your weakness on show. You hand delivered her to me, Jamie. I’ve said it before. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

“What have ye done with her?” Jamie finally looked up at his captor.

Jack was studying him carefully, playing with his bottom lip before he sat forward, making sure he had Jamie’s full attention. 

“Nothing. Yet.”

“Ye said she was here.”

“That was days ago. She’s come and gone several times since then.”

“She is’na curious as to why I’m no’ comin’ home?”

“Not when she’s been told that your lead has taken you to London and you’ve gone undercover.” Jack’s grey eyes lit up in victory. 

“She’ll never believe that,” Jamie scoffed as he shook his head. Jack thought he had the upper hand but Claire would never believe that he would leave without saying goodbye to her. 

“Really?” Jack leered at him as the door opened behind Jamie and someone brought in a plate of food. Jamie’s stomach growled ferociously as the food was placed on the table between them. 

“You’re still texting her, so why should she doubt that you’re in London? You’ve apologised for the abruptness of your departure and she understood. She was angry of course. She tried to call you. Left a very angry voicemail. We can play it if you like.” Jack pulled Jamie’s phone from his pocket and Jamie flinched as he tried to control himself from leaping across the table and snatching back the phone. 

Jack grinned, thrilled at Jamie’s reaction as he unlocked the phone and played the recording. 

“I know you can’t talk. But I just wanted to hear your voice. Let you explain why you just got carried away to London without telling me.” Claire sighed deeply and Jamie could imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “Look, I know this is your job and it’s important to you, but so is our life together and you can’t just up and leave with no warning. You need to talk to me. I guess, have a good time in London. I hope you get what you need, just… call me back. Alright?.”

To hear her voice, to hear her anger at the lie that Jack had created, caused Jamie’s heart to stutter. The food in front of him was forgotten as he ached from head to toe with longing for Claire. She was his weakness, but no one would be sadistic enough to do anything to her. Except Jack Randall. 

“She’s getting very impatient to hear your voice Jamie. You should see some of these messages. She might start questioning where you are. So I think you two should have a little chat.” 

Jamie looked up at the man that held his life in his hands. Jamie was sure he’d never known pure hatred until that moment. 

“Do not tip her off to anything. She is watched, Jamie. I could end her like that.” Jack snapped his fingers together before dialling Claire’s number and holding the phone to Jamie. 

“Jamie!” Claire’s breathy voice echoed around the room and Jamie had to swallow several times before he could respond. 

“Claire.”

“Thank god. I was getting worried. How are you? Are you coming home soon?”

“I’m fine, just busy. It’s been… I’ve had trouble getting to my phone to talk to ye. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m just glad that you’re alright.”

“Aye. I am. Listen, I said that I would have drinks with John and Murtagh but I dinna ken how long I’ll be in London. Can ye call them and let them know I’ll talk to them when I get back?”

There was a long pause and Jamie prayed that she understood the message and didn’t say anything that would cause Jack to hurt her. 

“What day were you going to see them? It's not in the calendar?”

Jamie suppressed his sigh of relief. “Later in the month I think. We hadn’t set a date so I dinna think I put it in yet. Sorry, Sassenach.”

“It’s fine. Just… that’s why we have the calendar Jamie. So that we don’t forget anything.” She sounded exasperated and Jamie thanked God that she was playing along. 

“Aye I ken. We’d just spoken in passing and I just remembered.”

“Lucky you called then. So how’s London? The weather looks terrible.”

“I have’na been outside all that often to be truthful with ye.”

“Do you know when you’re coming home?”

“Not yet. I’m sorry, Sassenach. I’m trying.”

“Yeah. Sure. Ok well. I’m about to start my next shift. I’ll talk to you later, ok?” Jamie could hear the wobble in Claire’s voice but he wasn’t sure that Jack did. He didn’t know her like Jamie did. 

“Aye. I love ye Claire.”

“I love you too.”

The phone went dead and Jamie took a moment to collect himself. Jack was studying him carefully. 

“Murtagh and John?”

“Friends of mine from school. They are coming into town and I promised them a drink.”

Jack seemed satisfied with Jamie’s response and relaxed. 

“Where are my manners? You must be famished. Please, help yourself.” Jack indicated the food in front of Jamie who felt his mouth start watering. Jamie eyed Jack skeptically and he laughed in response. 

“It’s not poisoned,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. “That’s not really my style.”

“No?” Jamie asked, feigning disinterest as he tentatively reached out to the knife and fork. His hands were shaking and weak as he was, he couldn’t control them. Carefully he cut into the steamed vegetables. There was a hearty looking steak but Jamie wasn’t sure what it would do to his stomach. Better to start off small and work his way up. The carrot melted in his mouth and it was all he could do to not groan in appreciation. 

Jack huffed in satisfaction before he sat back in his own seat, watching Jamie eat. 

“Poison- That’s a coward's answer. I want to see the light leave their eyes. I want them to know exactly who is bringing them to their knees. I don’t want any doubt of who is in control.”

Jamie swallowed the lump that was in his throat. Jack sounded almost gleeful, frivolous as he spoke of murder. Jamie had only scratched the surface. Jack was far worse than he had given him credit for. 

“Control, is it?” Jamie asked conversationally, chewing his food carefully. He didn’t know when he would be allowed to eat again. He needed to be smart. 

“That’s what everyone wants, isn’t it? Control over their lives. Control over others. I happen to be very good at it once people,” Jack paused, “submit.”

“Control and submission. Sounds kinky.”

“Oh it is. It very much is.” Jack sat forward eagerly, thrilled that Jamie was following along. “Tell me, have you ever killed anyone?”

Jamie felt his heart freeze and skip a beat. Yes, he had. One doesn’t easily forget taking a life, even in the line of battle, even if it was with just cause. 

“Aye,” Jamie barely grunted, avoiding looking at Jack as he continued to eat. 

“Really killed someone, Jamie. I’m not talking about in the line of fire.”

Jamie glanced up at the man across from him and instantly regretted it. Jack Randall’s eyes were alight and intrigued.

Fire. 

Jamie felt like he could see the burning depths of his soul in his eyes. It was evil. Jamie had never considered someone evil before. It seemed too extreme. People weren’t evil. There were certainly the good and the bad but no one was evil. Though looking across at Jack Randall now, Jamie re-thought that entire philosophy. 

“Ye mean for the sake of killin’?” Jamie asked. 

“Exactly. For the pure knowledge of knowing that you can.”

“Canna say I have, nor had the desire.”

“It’s,” Jack paused as he thought over his choice of words, “the point of fucking, when your just about to come and the ecstasy of knowing that you are in complete control and yet have none at all. The tipping point that you feel where your very essence is building to your cock and you can let loose at any moment. You know what I mean?” Jack's voice was soft, as if speaking to a lover and Jamie suppressed a shudder as he nodded curtly. 

“It is that moment, intensified. Because you are in complete control. One moment a heart beat and the next none and you are responsible. It’s a feeling that lasts longer than those few moments of fucking someone senseless. This is a power that keeps going.”

“Will that be my fate then? Feed me to kill me?”

“Well that entirely depends on you.” Randall sat back in his chair and Jamie for the first time noticed that he was breathing heavily with sweat on his brow. The man was psychotic. 

“On me?” Jamie asked as he slowly started to eat the steak, though he had entirely lost his appetite. He needed the food. He needed sustenance and who knew when he was going to be able to eat again.

“Of course. Submission Jamie. It’s not something you’ve been particularly skilled at.”

“Submission?” Jamie asked, feeling his mouth run dry. 

Jack flashed his eyebrows with the suggestion and Jamie felt like he’d swallowed a stone. He couldn’t be suggesting… that. He couldn’t. Randall stood up from the chair slowly and made his way around to Jamie. He pushed the plate to the side as the door opened and someone took away Jamie’s half eaten meal. Something was dropped on the table but Jamie couldn’t see what. He was looking anywhere but at Randall. 

Jack ran his fingers gently down Jamie’s face, from his temple, cheek bone to jaw before he gripped his chin and violently forced Jamie to look at him. 

“You could be a real asset to me, Jamie. You just need to,” Randall bent forward, his face millimeters from Jamie’s, “submit.”

Jack’s lips were on Jamie’s before he had time to react, his tongue in Jamie’s mouth, forcing its way past his lips, the taste of stale cigarettes and coffee coating Jamie’s mouth before he wrenched himself free. Jamie jumped up from the chair and stumbled backward as he wiped his mouth. 

“See what I mean about not being particularly skilled,” Jack laughed lightly as Jamie wobbled on his feet. He was still weak. Still injured. He couldn’t fight his way out of there. He should have tried to take the knife. He wouldn’t have made it very far. Jack would see to that. He had no idea how he was meant to escape. 

“Not ready to submit yet then?” Jack continued unaware of Jamie’s thoughts. “I suppose a few more days should help.”

—-

Light. 

Blocked by puffy and swollen eyes. Beaten black and blue. 

Pain. 

Fingers on his left hand now well and truly shattered. Another broken rib. A freshly opened cut on his head. A steady drip, drip, drip of blood. Jamie didn’t have the strength to staunch the flow. 

Memory. 

Five days at least. Hazy memories. Beaten, washed, beaten, hand strapped for healing only to be broken again. Washed. A loving caress. A kick to the stomach. An iron brand on his rib. Washed. Black. Light. Darkness. A laugh. Cold. Cruel. Evil. Light. Dark. Beaten. 

Smell. 

Lavender. Piss. Shit. Sweat. Whisky. Lavender. Lavender. Lavender. His head felt like it would split with the smell. The sweet tange of the flower was overwhelming. Clean. Fresh laundry. Claire. Her perfume. Her washing detergent. Lavender. Did Claire smell like lavender? Piss. Shit. Lavender. Claire. 

Sound. 

A cold cruel laugh. The sounds of love making. Grunts and groans. Footsteps coming and going. Retching- from Jamie. His stomach emptying anything and everything he ate. Silence. Complete buzzing silence. A scream. Claire? Jamie was coming. Don’t scream. He was coming for her. Silence. 

Taste

Vomit. Blood. Bread. Water. Vomit. A never ending rotation. Blood. Water. Bread. Vomit. Blood. Cigarettes. Coffee. Both Stale. Both an unwelcome intrusion into his mouth from another. Water. Vomit. Water. Blood.

Death. 

Jamie pleaded for it. He longed for it. No one was coming for him. He was lost. Trapped with the sadistic notions of Randall. No escape. Death. Pleading for a release. 

\--

“I’ll give you credit, Jamie. You’ve lasted much longer than I thought that you would. I truly thought that you would have broken by now.”

Jack sat across the table from Jamie, as his fingers tapped impatiently. The soup in front of Jamie remained untouched. He couldn’t stomach it. What was the point if he was just going to vomit it up again later?

“Not eating?” Jack asked pleasantly. “Is it not to your taste?”

Jamie didn’t respond. He’d stopped responding days ago. There was no point. He didn’t need to know any more about Randall. He’d collected more than enough information to put Randall away for the rest of his life over the past week, or had it been a month? Jamie had completely lost track of time.

“You need to keep your strength up.” Jack pushed the bowl closer to Jamie and his stomach recoiled as the smell reached his nostrils. “What would Claire think?”

Her name on his lips caused unadulterated fury to rocket through Jamie’s nervous system, but weak as he was, he could barely lift his head to meet the gaze of Randall.

“I am going to call her today, or rather, you are going to call her today. She’s getting impatient to hear from you.”

“I canna talk to her,” Jamie mumbled. It was the first time he had spoken in several days and his voice broke several times as his lips clumsily moved around the words.

“Why ever not?” Jack asked, delighted that Jamie was finally speaking to him again.

“I… I dinna sound… she’ll ken something is wrong.”

“Well, then you had better eat and drink something, and you’d better get your fucking act together and speak to her,” Jack growled impatiently.

Jamie nodded obediently and with a shaking hand picked up the spoon and started eating.

“There’s a good boy.” Jack sat back satisfied as he watched Jamie eat. “Doesn’t that feel better?” 

Jamie barely acknowledged that Jack was speaking to him, far too concentrated on the pain in his mouth. The hot liquid seared his tongue, the molar that was loose in the back of his mouth burned and his hand cramped as he tried to hold the spoon steady.

“You’ve got a bit...” Jack leaned forward and gently brushed Jamie’s chin gently. Jamie barely shuddered as Jack touched him. Far different from his reaction to Jack’s hands on him at first.

“You’re learning,” Jack sighed happily as Jamie continued to eat in stoic silence. “Keep behaving and you might be able to speak to Claire more often.”

Jamie knew what Randall was doing and he worked hard to show no reaction at his words, but he could feel a bead of sweat slowly making its way down his spine. This was for Claire. He was doing this for Claire. He would endure it all, if it just meant that she was safe.

Jack pulled Jamie’s phone from his pocket and lay it on the table between them. The phone buzzed to life and Jamie barely saw his background before Randall swiped away, looking for Claire’s number. A photo of Jamie and Claire together, sitting in their apartment, nothing special, no fancy occasion, just them, happily being with each other. God, he missed her. God, he loved her.

“It’s ringing,” Jack said excitedly as he put the phone on speaker.

“Jamie?” Claire sounded confused and half asleep. He had no idea what time it was, what could he even say to her.

“Sassenach,” Jamie barely whispered the word, he couldn’t get his vocal chords moving and a swift kick to his shins from Randalls boot made him gasp in pain.

“Jamie, are you there?” Claire sounded more alert now. Jamie wanted to reach out, to take the phone, to cradle her against him. He needed to protect her.

“Aye, sorry,” his voice was stronger now. He had to be strong for her. “Did I wake ye?”

“I’m on night rotation this week. I told you that yesterday,” Claire answered.

Randall narrowed his eyes at Jamie, telling him without words, not to reveal anything to her. The thought that Randall was communicating with Claire, pretending to be Jamie, sent the soup he had just eaten back up Jamie’s throat and he fought to swallow it back down again.

“Aye, so ye did. I’m sorry, the days are all runnin’ together here, and I’m losing track of the time.”

Claire sighed. It would have sounded impatient to Randall, but Jamie knew Claire. He knew that she was worried about him, that she didn’t know where he was or when he was coming home. 

“I’m sorry, Claire. I’m sorry that I’m not there wi’ ye.” Jamie didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to tell her where he was. He didn’t even know where he was. Had she contacted Murtagh or John? Had she told them that something was wrong?

“It’s ok. I know how hard you work…. How difficult your job is… I know,” Claire replied softly. “I just miss you.”

“I miss you too, Sassenach. Every day.”

There was silence between then and Jamie’s eyes flicked over to Randall. He was studying Jamie intently. He licked his lips and that was when Jamie saw his other hand drop to his lap. The sick bastard was getting off on this. Jamie needed to end the call. He needed to send a message to Claire. He had to get out of here.

“I’ll be home to ye soon,” Jamie said with a wave of energy. “I’ll finish up where I am, and we’ll go away together. Take that trip ye wanted, that I kept puttin’ off. We’ll do whatever ye want.”

“I can’t wait,” Claire answered quickly, sounding more alert.

“Can ye tell Ian and Jen that I’m sorry that I missed Wee Jamie’s birthday. I dinna think that Jen is speakin’ to me right now… and rightly so. Tell her that I’m sorry and that I’ll be back home soon.”

“I can do that. Jamie’s birthday, yes. You missed quite the party. Even Murtagh came.”

“Murtagh?” Jamie stopped himself sighing in relief, she had contacted him. She knew he was in danger. They were looking for him. “Must have been quite a party to get him to go along.”

“Well, as he was coming up to see you and John anyway, it wasn’t that much of a stretch.”

“Aye, of course. He just usually does’na do the family thing. Just a surprise that ye managed to drag him along. He hasn’t spoken to his brother in years.” Jamie’s gaze was firmly fixed on the phone on the table, trying to ignore the movements of Randall’s hands on himself as he listened to their conversation.

“His brother?” Claire repeated in confusion, as Jamie held his breath hoping that she understood the message. Murtagh didn’t have a brother, but Randall did. Claire knew that he was working Randall’s case and if anything happened to Jamie, it would be Randall that would be behind it. “Of course, Rupert,” Claire corrected quickly. “No, they haven’t spoken in a while.”

“I love ye, Claire. So much.” It was all Jamie could say in gratitude for her understanding him.

“I love you too. Even if you are the most stubborn, pig-headed man I’ve ever met in my life.”

Jamie chuckled, he couldn’t help it. Even fighting for his life, she couldn’t help but chastise him.

“Aye, I ken.” Jamie’s eyes flicked up to Randall who was biting his lip, his hand working faster. Jamie felt bile rise in his throat. “I love ye, mo nighean donn.” Jamie hung the phone up before Claire could answer and watched as the mottled red rose up Randall’s throat in anger.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he spat at Jamie, knocking the half finished soup to the floor with a clatter. “It isn’t nice to stop a man when he is on his apex, Jamie. I would have thought you knew that.”

“I will no’ assist ye in gettin’ off to phone calls between Claire and I,” Jamie growled in return. His left hand clenched into a fist and his bruised and broken bones shuddered at the movement.

“Submission- Jamie. You still have a thing or two to learn about it. And now here I am with blue-balls. What on earth am I to do about it?” Randall stood up from the table and made his way around to Jamie, who was very pointedly avoiding looking at the prominent bulge at the front of Randall’s pants.

“Go fuck yerself,” Jamie snarled at Randall.

Jack stood behind Jamie and ran his hands from his shoulders, down his chest, to his stomach, suddenly grasping Jamie’s cock, as Jamie yelped and tried to push away from him.

“But I could fuck you so much better,” Randall breathed into his ear, holding him in place. Coffee, whiskey and the smell of stale cigarettes washed over Jamie’s face as he struggled against Randall. He was going to be sick. He was going to vomit. He needed to get away from Randall, who was kissing and biting his neck.

“And you will,” Randall said before standing up straight and releasing Jamie from his grasp. “You’ll come to me willingly, Fraser. Mark my words.”

Then he was gone. Jamie was blindfolded and thrown into a new room. Pitch black. Concrete floor. Jamie curled into a ball in what he thought was a corner and sobbed until his ribs ached.

\---

“We need to get him out of there Murtagh!” Claire was pacing back and forth in front of Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser and John Grey who were both hunched over a desk, studying a map.

“Christ lass, I ken. But we dinna know where the lad is.”

“His brother, Randall’s brother. Have you questioned him? Does he know where Jack is? We have to get him out of there. I’ve never heard him…. He…. he’s dying in there, Murtagh. We have to get him out.” Claire repeated everything that Jamie had said to her on the phone call to Murtagh and John. They had listened carefully, taken studious notes, but they were still no closer to finding him.

“I’m trying, Claire. We are all trying,” Murtagh replied irritably.

“Not hard enough!” Claire slammed her palms on the table, feeling the tingle of pain travel from her fingertips to her scalp.

“What do ye suppose we do then? Knock on every warehouse door in the whole of Dumfermline, ask for a spot of tea and if they’ve taken any hostages lately?” Murtagh asked sarcastically.

“If that’s what it takes, then yes!” Claire answered aggressively.

“Claire, Murtagh, this isn’t helping us find him,” John interceded.

“You didn’t hear him John. It’s been two months. We need to get him back.” Claire couldn’t hold back the gasping sob that rose in her chest.

“And we will,” John said comfortingly. “We will, Claire.”

\---

Jamie had grown accustomed to Randall’s wandering hands, he didn’t flinch or shudder any more, but he never came willingly. Each time someone came to take him away, he fought, he kicked, he screamed, he bit. Like a feral animal more than a man, he would never go willingly.

So sleep deprived and hungry, Randall had come to him one night, or at least Jamie supposed it had been night. Randall dressed his wounds, cradled his head as he fed him soup, spoke softly, kindly as one would a lover. Jamie relaxed in his arms, the smell of lavender floating around his head. Claire. He missed her so much, Randall spoke of her, told him to picture her holding him in her arms. It was Claire dressing his wounds. It was Claire who was feeding him. It was Claire who was kissing him.

Jamie’s eyes had flown open at that, and he scrambled away from Randall. Randall was not Claire. He would never be Claire. He refused to let his guard down again, which earned him four days with no food or water. four days in total solitude.

She had to come soon. She had to save him. He didn’t know how much longer he would last without her.

\---

“I have a lead,” Claire marched through the office and slammed a napkin onto Murtagh’s desk.

“What’s this?” he asked gruffly, studying the address that was hastily written. “What are ye wearing?”

“It’s Jack’s warehouse. Well, it’s his block of warehouses. Jamie is in one of them. I know it.” Claire shuffled anxiously from one stilettoed foot to another. The dress she was wearing was blood red and devilishly low cut. Murtagh found that he couldn’t quite look at her properly without blushing slightly.

“Where did ye get this?” Murtagh asked suspiciously. They’d flagged the warehouses once before, but it was owned by a company that couldn’t be traced back to Randall. It was closed, dead lead.

“Frank Randall,” Claire answered triumphantly as Murtagh jumped to his feet and his desk chair flew out behind him.

“Frank… Frank Randall. What the devil were ye doin’ speakin’ with Frank Randall?” Murtagh asked, his voice low and harsh.

“I was on a date with him,” Claire answered coolly. “We “bumped” into each other at a coffee shop and he took me back to his place. I found a delivery slip with the address in his office, told him that I wasn’t feeling well and came straight here.”

“How can ye… what… that… it could be….” Murtagh spluttered.

“Get a team ready, we have to go.” Claire turned around the office, as if she was looking for a big red “emergency” button that would make everyone come running.

“This could be anything, Claire,” Murtagh answered gruffly, “this is’na a lead.”

“It is when Frank Randall boasts about how he can get you anything in the world, rare diamonds, works of art…. Other illicit substances, through a warehouse connection. And when pressed about police involvement, Frank Randall, who will do anything for anyone in a short skirt, will tell you that it can’t be traced back to him, as the warehouses are under an old English family name, Randolf Wolverton.”

“Well… I’ll be damned,” Murtagh said slowly.

“Sound the alarm, we have to go get him,” Claire repeated slowly as Murtagh finally met her eyes. “Murtagh, we have to save him.”

“Aye…. aye.”

\---

Light.

Too much light after lying in the darkness for too long.

Pain.

Another strip of flesh torn from his back from the whip.

Comfort.

Gentle hands, patching him up, telling him it was going to be alright.

Memory.

Claire. She loved him. She was saving him.

Smell.

Lavender, cleaning his wounds.

Sound.

Footsteps running outside the room he was locked in. People yelling. The pop-pop-pop of guns firing.

Taste.

Whiskey. A tongue forcefully entered his mouth as he tried to move his head away. Blood coating his tongue as he was slapped across the face at his resistance.

Light.

Eyes adjusting to the empty warehouse. Sat on a chair. Stripped naked.

Pain.

A kick to his groin, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Memory.

A voice, telling him to give in. If he just gave in, this would all be over.

Smell.

Sweat and dirt. The metallic copper of blood. His own blood.

Sound.

More shouting, metal grinding against each other. The cold hard laugh of Jack Randall.

Light.

Gone. Plunged into darkness once more.

Pain.

Forced to his feet. A knife against his throat, the sting of the blade as it pierced his skin. The overwhelming relief that Jamie felt with the knowledge that if the knife could just dig a little deeper this would all be over.

Memory.

Her laugh. Her smile. Her whiskey brown eyes. The splattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Brown curly hair, wild and untamed.

Smell.

Sweat, not from Jamie. The specific type of sweat that comes from fear. Randall pressed up against him, hissing into his ear to stay silent.

Sound.

A door swinging open, drenching them both in daylight. Men shouting, words that Jamie couldn’t decipher. 

Silence.

A gunshot.

Pain. 

\---

Jenny Murray stood at her kitchen window watching her two year old son jump in the mud puddles with his 32year old father. Both boys were completely saturated from head to toe. The baby in her stomach kicked a particularly heavy blow to her kidney and she winced at the pain.

“Now stop tha’, ye’ll have yer chance to jump in the puddles soon enough,” Jenny murmured to her expanding belly.

The growing anxiety about her brother's whereabouts hadn’t been good for the baby. Ian had tried to soothe her, remind her how strong Jamie was and that he would be home again soon. It didn’t work- Jenny still worried.

The frantic phone call from Claire a month ago, babbling nonsense about her son’s birthday, and that Jamie was trying to send her a message, she just didn’t know what. Something about someone called Jack Randall and his brother. Jenny's brows furrowed as she tried to think of what Jamie could possibly mean. Wee Jamie’s birthday was in July. They were well into September. Was that something? Did the months mean something? Jenny racked her brain trying to tell Claire and Murtagh anything and everything that she could think of.

Claire refused to leave the city, Jenny offered for her to stay in Lallybroch and wait for the police to do their job, but she refused. She wouldn’t come until Jamie was safe.

Jenny rubbed her belly again as two very muddy boys made their way to the back door, giggling like maniacs.

“Ye are no’ comin’ into my kitchen lookin’ like ye belong wi’ the pigs,” Jenny chastised the pair as Wee Jamie snorted like a pig. 

“Better strip off, lad,” Ian said looking down at his son. “I think a warm bath may be in order, aye?”

“Aye,” Jenny agreed as the two boys stripped in the doorway and ran shrieking and giggling and naked through the house to the bathroom.

Jenny was bending to pick up the soiled clothing when the phone rang. Dropping the clothes with a slop she waddled to the phone, answering breathlessly.

“Claire?”

“We have him. Jenny… he’s…”

“I’m on my way.”

\--

Light.

The drive to the Warehouse. The sun shone too brightly. Not a cloud in the sky. It looked too peaceful.

Pain.

Claire had never known pain like it. Slicing her in half, ripping out her heart and stopping the breath in her lungs.

Memory.

Jamie’s body, limply held up by Randall. Stripped naked, battered and bruised, too weak to even lift his head.

Smell.

The smell of blood that hit her nostrils when she saw him. Blocking out all other senses until-

Sound.

Jamie’s body falling to the concrete floor in a crumpled mess. The finality of the thud. A sound that Claire would never forget.

Taste.

The acrid bile that rose in her throat at the sight of Randall’s depravity.

Light.

The operating theatre lights. The body glowing beneath them, washed from the caked on blood, but black and blue with bruises across every inch of the body.

Pain.

Her chest still ached, a bleeding heart, torn from her chest as she looked at his limp body.

Memory.

The pallor of his skin, ashen beneath the bruises and blood. The hands that tried to stop her as she ran toward his body. The voices telling her to stop, to slow down. The way his lifeless body felt in her hands, eyes closed, mouth open, a stream of blood dripping from the corner. The way his mouth would quirk before he smiled, the slight twitch as if he was trying to stop himself. The same corner that she loved to kiss, leaking his life onto her hands.

Smell.

The antiseptic surrounding her. Clean. Clinical. Pure.

Sound.

The echoing scream of his name as she had run toward him. The feeling of her vocal chords scratching as her voice said what her heart had been bleeding. “You can not leave me”.

Taste.

The coffee after hours and hours of surgery. They told her she was too close. Abernathy could do the operation. One look from her whiskey hawk eyes and nobody questioned her again.

Light.

The dimmed bedside lamp, casting shadows on his face. She didn’t know if Randall was dead or alive. The shot had run out and she hadn’t thought a second longer as she ran to Jamie. Willing him to be alive. Willing him to stay with her. He could not leave her.

Pain.

The gasping sob as they packaged them both into separate ambulances. Randall didn’t deserve the oxygen that he was on. He didn’t deserve the pain medication, the paramedics running to his side. He deserved death, slow and painful. Drawn out in excruciating detail.

Memory.

The thought of Jamie’s eyes opening again. The way he looked at her in the morning, heavily lidded, clearest blue. She could see his heart in his eyes. Would they open again?

Smell.

Another coffee brought to her by Jenny from the cafeteria. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten since they had finished his surgery. She blew the hot liquid, trying to cool it down, knowing that she would ignore it, and let it grow cold, just like the four other drinks Jenny had brought her.

Sound.

The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, the only reassurance that he was still with her. That somewhere in his bruised and broken body, he was still fighting to be with her.

Taste.

Salty tears streaming down her face as she threw herself across his body. Her lips on his jaw, tasting his skin, free from his blood now, but smelling like hospital soap.

Light.

Her body finally giving gave up as she succumbed to sleep. No matter how bright the hospital light was above them, she slept. Her hand on his, always touching, ready to spring to action the moment he showed any sign of coming to.

Pain.

Waking up before him, no improvement, no wakefulness from him. She could lose him. The pain of loneliness as she begged him to come back to her.

\---

Light.

Blinding light above him. His eyes struggled to focus. He didn’t know where he was. Everything was white. Was he dead? Was this what heaven looked like?

Pain.

Nothing. He felt nothing. Weightless. There was no pain, there was no joy, there was simply, nothingness.

Memory.

Her face. Her broken features as someone held her back from him. He was so tired, he just wanted to be released. At least if this was the end, he got to see her one last time.

The sound of a gunshot, singular and final. His body released from his captor, falling, he was falling and then there was nothingness.

Smell.

He swore he could smell her. This must be heaven. Like freshly mowed wet grass, like spring, like fresh air and the ocean. He took a deep lungful, if only to hold onto her smell for a moment longer.

Sound.

What was previously muted started to become known. Her voice. Broken and begging. Pleading with him, with God, with any Saint she could call upon. He wanted to tell her that he heard her. That he loved her. That he would never truly be gone from her.

Taste.

Stale. If this was heaven, surely it could taste better. No longer was his mouth constantly pooled with his own blood. But he tasted stale, or rubber.

Light.

Blue eyes shot open and winced at the brightness surrounding him. He was not dead. He was alive. He was somewhere… it was bright, everything smelled too clean. Hospital- the word burst into his mind and he took another deep breath. He was alive. He was not dead. He turned his head, searching for her. She had to be close, he could still smell her.

Her voice, distant and serious. She sounded exhausted, like she had lived three or four lifetimes. Lifetimes lived without him. He wanted to call out to her, his throat was so dry, a rasp, rather than what he had intended - her name.

Footsteps, hurried footsteps, the beeping of the heart-rate monitor picking up pace.

A wild untamed cloud of brown curls blocking his vision. Whiskey eyes, red rimmed and glassy.

Claire.

“Jamie,” her voice was a broken whisper as she looked down at him. Her hands framed his face and her forehead touched his own.

Pain.

Exquisite pain as his heart called out for her and she answered. Not pain. No more pain.

Comfort. Pleasure. Home.


End file.
